Last night I saw you stir,
you were half asleep as I was,
listless because life's
a dreary affair, what thoughts
you have of me I do not know,
but the flowers weep no more,
It was your hand that made the sign
and I looked the other way,
old dreams must die someday,
I sighed but still
I listened to the warm words
rise like smoke from your lips,
dead muse that walks again,
I found the air different
when I vacated your shade, freer,
wilder than the goat god promised
and certainly uncertain, it felt like
a dagger in my belly, I bled sweet pain
and twisted like a serpent in my sleep.
She was infinitely more mature
than I am, her words were true,
I am a reflection in a shattered mirror,
the disfigurement must be an illusion
and you, dread love, a dream.
Comments
Hi William
So good to know you rediscovered your love of poetry from which you had said you felt a bit alienated a few days back. A good read..
Regards,
Not sure I understood all the twists,
but the language always pleases. Most important is that you posted at all. That's exciting.
this is my kind of poetry
dragging up the uncomfortable truths.
this one reads like it descended upon you and was valiantly wrestled onto paper.
hi William
An intriguing write
I thought I had it sussed, until the last stanza....
Who is the other 'she'? A new muse?
great word useage, descriptive and use of imagery
I especially like 'but the flowers weep no more', and the last three lines of the second stanza
love judy
xxx
Good thing you noticed there
Good thing you noticed there was another 'she'. That one is a new friend who made an impression on me. She's not the same as the muse I spoke of earlier.